THE HONOURABLE THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE
Time flies.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It is another Christmas Eve, ten years later than the one described in
the opening chapter of this narrative. The Honourable Thomas Singleton
Bingle is preparing for his annual reading of "The Christmas Carol."
The sentiment which influences him on this occasion is the same that
inspired the habit in his days of long ago, but the surroundings have
changed. Now the vast drawing-room in the home of Mr. Bingle provides
the setting for an elaborate observance of a custom that has become
almost historic to those who have studied the life and habits of Mr.
Bingle. An imposing English butler, assisted by two able footmen and
the head gardener of the estate, are employed in the final decoration
of the huge room. For seven or eight years they have performed these
Christmas Eve duties in the mansion on the Sound. Melissa, a trifle
more buxom than in the days of the lower West Side apartment but quite
as capable despite her secret knowledge that she receives a greater
salary than the mighty Diggs, is superintending the hanging of a row of
stockings along the mantel-ledge, stockings of variegated hues and
distinguishing sizes.
There are eleven children in the family now. They range from one year
up to twelve. Kathleen and Frederick divide the distinction of
seniority, both being twelve. There is some doubt as to the actual age
of Henrietta and Guinevere, but for the sake of policy, Henrietta, who
came first, is down in the family records as six, Guinevere as five,
although Mrs. Bingle herself confesses that they came but six weeks
apart, and at a time when a few weeks, either way, make little or no
difference in the computation. This was the nearest that Mr. and Mrs.
Bingle ever came to being blessed with twins. For awhile they hoped
that they could make twins out of these infants, but, as the children
grew older, the impracticability of such a thought--or ambition--became
clear to them, and they reluctantly abandoned the project. Henrietta
revealed all the characteristics of being of Italian extraction, while
Guinevere was unmistakably Irish.
If you were to take a motor-ride along the North Shore of Long Island
Sound and feel your way back into private lanes that appear to lead
nowhere in particular, they are so deviously circuitous, you would pass
by the lodge gates of two magnificent estates. One of them belonged to
Mr. Bingle, the other to Sydney Force--or, more strictly speaking, to
Mrs. Sydney Force. It is worthy of mention that Mr. Force lived up to
his theory of regeneration by selling to Mr. Bingle, at a tremendous
profit, one hundred acres off of the least desirable end of his late
father-in-law's estate, thereby proving to himself that the early bird
is a much smarter creation than the one which is satisfied to possess a
mere nest-egg. Of course, the selling of that "parcel" of land was
provocative of most acrimonious disputes between Mr. and Mrs. Force.
Mrs. Force, while not averse to the sale of the land, was frightfully
cut up by the fact that she was to have the impossible Bingles as
neighbours, and Mr. Force, who was the prince of snobs, berated her
soundly for petty snobbishness.
"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.
"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a
rather lame sort of wit.
"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed. "They
are awfully smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."
"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said
he. "They are much too smart for that."
Mr. Bingle erected a very costly and magnificent house, much against
his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wishing that he
was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on
anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him
where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed by
the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a
most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She
experienced a great deal of pleasure in association with a man who
could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in
her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money, he
could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he
could not make her boots fit as neatly, nor her hats sit as naturally;
he could not buy style or majesty for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind
of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.
Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the mistletoe.
Watson's position was precarious. He was at the top of a step-ladder,
struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the enormous
chandelier, and the ladder was wobbling.
"It's all tommy-rot," muttered Watson, apropos of nothing that had gone
before.
"Wot's all tommy-rot?" demanded Mr. Diggs severely.
"Christmas Eve," said Watson. "I have no objection to Christmas
morning, but 'ang me if I can see any sense in Christmas Eve. What's it
good for, anyway?"
"You'd better get a taller ladder," said Mr. Diggs. "It's getting on
towards 'alf-past eight. We can't be all night 'anging that bunch of
mistletoe, you know."
Melissa paused in her work long enough to devote an appraising look
upon Watson.
"You look very handsome up there, Watson. It gives you a very good
height. Straighten your legs out a bit. If you stand up as straight as
you can you'll be as tall as Mr. Diggs THINKS he is."
"See here, my fine lady," began Diggs, annoyed.
"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Diggs," cried Melissa. "I didn't see you."
"You'll get your walking papers if you don't keep your place," said
Diggs ominously.
"And I'll keep my place if I don't get my walking papers," retorted
Melissa, airily.
"And what's more," went on the butler, "you'll get the sack anyway if
you don't stop filling the kids up with them yarns of yours. The nurses
were telling Mrs. Bingle that the children didn't go to sleep for hours
last night, they were that scared."
"Seeing ghosts, dragons and goblins all night long," said Hughes, the
second footman, shoving a big chair into position. Chairs from all
parts of the house had been brought to the drawing-room and arranged in
a semi-circle in front of the huge fireplace, at one corner of which
stood Mr. Bingle's reading lamp, accurately placed at the edge of a
costly little Italian table. There were big chairs and little chairs,
soft chairs and hard ones, chairs of velvet and chairs of silk, chairs
of ancient needle-point and chairs that could not be sat upon.
"I didn't tell any ghost stories yesterday," said Melissa. "I told 'em
about robbers and kidnappers."
"Get the ladder, Watson," said Diggs. "What are you standing there for?
Do you think it's a pedestal you're on?"
"I just wanted to say that three of the kids saw sea-serpents and
crocodiles in their dreams--"
"Don't lay it to me, Watson," broke in Melissa. "I'm not to blame if
they had delirium tremens. I didn't give them anything to drink."
"I--I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about you, Melissa," exclaimed
Diggs severely.
"Do! She is always complimented when you condescend to speak to her,
Mr. Diggs."
"Don't scrap," put in the gardener mildly. "Remember it's Christmas
Eve."
"Oy-yoy!" groaned Watson. "We've all got to listen to Mr. Bingle read
Dickens again. It will be the sixth time I've 'eard The Christmas Carol
in this 'ere room." He departed in quest of the tall step-ladder,
banging Hughes on the shins with the small one as he swung past.
Hughes said something under his breath and then, with a quick glance at
Melissa, went on: "I will say this for the old boy, he makes Christmas
a merry one for all of us."
"Must I remind you again, Hughes, not to speak of the master as 'the
old boy'? Please remember that you were engaged as a TRAINED servant."
"Well, I'd have you to know, Mr. Diggs, that I'm not one of your bally
English servants. I'm as good an American as any one, and I say what I
please."
"You were engaged as an English footman. I distinctly told you that at
the intelligence office when I engaged you. You may be as American as
you please on your days out, but while you are on duty in this 'ouse,
you've got to be as English as I am, or--"
"Oh, I can drop 'em as well as any one, Mr. Diggs," said Hughes
scornfully. "'Ulloa! 'Ere comes the lidy governess!" He was peering
into the hall, the corners of his mouth drawn down in the most approved
English fashion.
Whatever may have been Mr. Bingle's taste in the selection of rugs and
furniture, he could be charged with no lack of it in his choice of a
governess for the young Bingles. Miss Fairweather was as pretty as a
picture. In fact, you would go a long way before you found a picture as
pretty as Miss Fairweather. Her serene beauty was disturbed, however,
by a perplexed frown, as she hurriedly entered the room and paused just
inside the door for a furtive, agitated glance down the hall.
"Diggs, who is in the library with Mr. Bingle?" she inquired,
unconsciously lowering her voice as if fearing the sharpness of distant
ears. It was a very pleasing, musical voice, a fact which no one
appreciated more than Diggs, who boasted of his ability to know a lady
when he heard one.
"A newspaper chap, Miss Fairweather. To interview Mr. Bingle about
the--" (here he sighed faintly)--"about the Christmas jollities."
Miss Fairweather sent another futile look in the direction of the
library. She was plainly distressed by her failure to see through the
walls that intervened.
"What--what name did he give?"
"I can't say, Miss. I didn't quite catch it myself."
"But you must have announced him. He gave you his card or--something,
didn't he?"
"No, Miss. He announced 'imself over the telephone this afternoon. It
sounded like Blinkers, or, even more nearly, on his repeating it, like
Rasmussen. At any rate, Mr. Bingle was expecting 'im, and came out into
the 'all before I had the chance to learn his name proper, so to speak,
Miss."
She bit her lip, annoyed. "Was it Flanders, Diggs?"
Mr. Diggs reflected. "It was," said he. "Now that you mention it, it
was. Richard, I think."
Miss Fairweather lowered her eyes suddenly and grasped the back of a
chair as if to steady herself. The next instant, she had recovered,
except that a queer, hunted look had settled in her eyes.
"Thank you, Diggs. Please say to Mrs. Bingle that I shall not be down
again this evening. I have a splitting headache." She moved rapidly
toward the door.
"Won't you be here for the reading, Miss?"
"No. I always cry when I hear about Tiny Tim." "Beg pardon, Miss, but
as this is your first Christmas Eve 'ere, you'll excuse me for saying
that the entire 'ousehold is expected to be present for the reading. It
is a rule, Miss. Even the cook comes up."
"Thank you, Diggs. Please give my message to Mrs. Bingle."
"Very good, Miss."
"By the way, is this Mr. Flanders tall and fair, with dark grey eyes, a
rather broad mouth and just the tiniest sort of a wave in his
hair--especially above the ears? And a small white scar on his left
thumb?"
Diggs arose to the demands of the occasion, as he always did. "Yes,
Miss. Quite accurate, I'm sure. And a very pleasant voice, I may add if
you don't mind."
"Thank you, Diggs," said Miss Fairweather for the third time, and then
scurried across the hall and up the broad staircase, accelerating her
speed materially as the library door was thrown open and lively
masculine voices came booming up from behind her.
"Sounds like a scene from a novel," said Melissa to Diggs, "A
mysterious stranger appears to disturb the peace and quiet of our
heroine. She runs off and hides in her room, shivering with dread lest
this spectre out of her dark past---"
"Rubbish!" said Mr. Diggs.
"Sure," said Melissa. "That's what most novels are. It's my opinion
that that young lady's been on the stage, Mr. Diggs. She acts just like
an actress. I've noticed that in her from the beginning. And the other
day she had a letter from a theatrical manager. I saw the name on the
envelope."
"I dare say," observed Diggs, inattentively. Watson appeared with the
tall step-ladder. "Be a bit lively, Watson. I 'ear Mr. Bingle in the
'all. Go and open the door for Mr. Flanders, Hughes."
Melissa happened to be standing directly beneath the mistletoe. Hughes
took advantage of an opportunity that has become historic. Then he
passed swiftly out of the room, followed by Melissa's astonished: "Oh,
you!" Watson came nimbly down the ladder and emulated the example of
the astonishing Hughes quite before Melissa could recover herself. He
received a resounding smack in return, but from the young woman's open
hand.
"Don't stand under it," he grumbled ruefully, "unless you want to play
the game."
"I'll stand under it as long as I please," said Melissa defiantly,
planting herself firmly on the spot from which Watson had hastily
removed the ladder. She faced Mr. Diggs.
Mr. Diggs coloured. He cleared his throat and then glared at Watson,
who went grinning from the room. Melissa was a very pretty, rosy young
woman, and her eyes flashed dangerously.
"It's a fine old custom," said Mr. Diggs persuasively. "In merry
England we hobserve it--er--you might say religiously, and without fear
of future complications. It can be done in a dignified fashion if--"
"I don't want to have it done in a dignified fashion," protested
Melissa, lifting her round little chin and pursing her lips invitingly.
"Do it as if you liked it, not as if you wanted to be religious."
Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was no
longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the
"very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in
common with mistletoe--the sort that DOES lead to future complications.
It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a little sigh of
happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love with her.
Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of least
resistance, and coughed.
"Oh, I--I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely distressed.
It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who apologised,
not Diggs.
As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who
grinned abominably, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of bliss
and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were speechless.
"It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast
geniality. "What's a mistletoe for if not to--yes, yes, Melissa, it's
quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?"
"Thoroughly," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr.
Bingle, I agree with Diggs."
Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over
his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that
strove hard to regain its former impressiveness:
"Yes, sir, it--it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as
can be, sir."
"Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of
imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of
observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over.
It was quite the proper thing to say, of course--apparently on any and
all occasions--but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the
significance of the simile. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is
everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily bedecked room
with an eye that took in the smallest detail.
"I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve,
sir, that I have added the necessary new chair--the 'igh-chair over
here, sir, for little Miss Him--Imogene."
"I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least
once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or three
years ago, one came in May and another in September."
"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.
"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."
"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.
"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her.
There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force have
arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."
"Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity.
"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr.
Bingle.
"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle in
his grey eyes.
"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses
say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here. I
can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit of
ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in respect
to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have the
reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange
the--er--the auditorium, you might say. That's where I sit--over there.
I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol. It will
do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it. There is a
train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here, so fire
away. I'm ready to be interviewed."
They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the
precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the
section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender
legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses with
a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many years,
to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected to wake
up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his breakfast
and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had occupied the day
before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently, for they seemed in
some way to clearly connect him with his last waking hours. He never
quite got over listening for the alarm clock.
At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was
forty-three. If anything, he seemed younger, for the harassed,
care-worn expression had disappeared, leaving him bland, benign of
countenance, although the same imperishable wrinkles lined his pinched
cheeks. He was just as careless about his sparse hair as in the days of
old. It was never by any chance sleek and orderly. The habit of running
his fingers through his thatch still clung to him, significant reminder
of the perplexities that filled his daily life over the ledgers and
day-books. In all other respects, however, he was a re-made man.
His trim little frame was clothed in expensive garments; his patent
leather pumps were the handiwork of the most fashionable of bootmakers,
and quite uncomfortable; his hosiery was of the finest silk and his
watch-chain was of platinum; there were pearl studs in his unpolished
shirt front and four shining black buttons on his neat white waistcoat;
his clawhammer coat had a velvet collar and fitted him about the
shoulders as if it had been constructed for a man who possessed much
more of a figure than he; and his trousers were primly pressed. Not the
same old Bingle outwardly, you will say, but you are wrong. He was, and
always will be, like the leopard.
A certain briskness of manner, inspired by necessity, had come to him
in these days of opulence. His position in life made its demands, and
one of the most exacting of these denied him the privileges of
familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a
day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa--say while the
latter was tidying up the library--but that was utterly out of the
question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue of
exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct, positive in his treatment of
the most trivial matters; as for conversing amiably with a single
servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than
words that it would not be tolerated--not for an instant. He would have
given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad, cheerful,
heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs--or to any one of the servants, for
that matter--but custom and the surprising dignity of his employees
compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored manner, quite as
if he did it automatically and always as if he was on the point of
clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's spontaneous, even
vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle of cutlery and
chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful dignity. She now
said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal voice of the trained
servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore, although he was by way
of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in the regions "below stairs."
"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old,"
said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I want,
Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it up, of
course, and--well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story, sir,
from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the children that
just grew."
"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear
sir, it's such an old story, this yarn about me. The newspapers have
worn it to shreds. Suppose we leave out all reference to the Hooper
millions. If the public is as tired of those millions as I am at times,
Mr. Flanders, we'll be doing an act of charity if we leave 'em out. You
will get your best story, as you call it, by observing what happens
here to-night. No one else has ever done it for a newspaper. You are
the first, my dear sir. I am a simple man. I don't like to be in the
newspapers. The long and tiresome litigation over my poor uncle's
estate has kept me more or less in the limelight, as you fellows would
say, and there have been times when I willingly would have given up the
fight if my lawyers had allowed me to do so. But a lawyer is something
you can't get rid of, once you've got him--or he's got you, strictly
speaking. My lawyers won't allow ME to quit, and I have every reason to
suspect that they won't allow the other side to quit. However, I
believe the matter is nearing an end. The United States Supreme Court
will pass on the issue just as soon as the lawyers on both sides reach
a verdict--that is to say, a verdict acknowledging that it won't pay
them to delay the business any longer. The case of Hooper et al vs.
Bingle has been going on like the Jarndyce matter for nearly nine
years. We've licked them in every court and in three separate hearings,
and my lawyers are confident the Supreme Court will sustain the
findings of the lower courts. I am a tender-hearted lunatic, Mr.
Flanders. I have made an arrangement whereby the son and two daughters
of Joseph Hooper are to be paid one million dollars each out of the
estate, just as soon as I know definitely that I have beaten them in
the court of last resort. I guess that will surprise 'em, eh?"
Flanders' eyes glittered. "Don't forget, Mr. Bingle, that you are
speaking to a newspaper man. That last statement of yours would make a
sensation, sir."
Mr. Bingle sighed. "I am sure you will not take advantage of me, Mr.
Flanders. I have made a similar statement to every newspaper man who
has interviewed me, and every one of them has promised not to use it in
his paper. So far not one of them has violated his promise. I am sure,
sir, that you are no less honourable than the rest of the boys."
"I have given no promise, sir."
"Nevertheless I shall trust you not to use the statement, Mr. Flanders.
And now, let us get back to the important part of the interview."
Flanders stared hard for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the serene
faith that this little but exceedingly important man reposed in his
fellow-man. He appeared to take it for granted that this startling
piece of confidence would not be betrayed, no matter to whom it was
extended. There was something actually pathetic in his guilelessness.
Mr. Richard Flanders admittedly was staggered, and yet somewhere down
in his soul he knew there was a spark of fairness that would become a
stupendous obstacle in the path of his news-getting avarice. Of course,
he was no less honourable than the rest of the boys!
"You would be more generous toward your cousins, I fear, than they
could be toward you," said the reporter, twisting his pencil nervously.
After all, it WOULD create a sensation, this remarkable statement of
Mr. Bingle.
"Oh, they would cheerfully see me rot in the poorhouse," assented Mr.
Bingle composedly. "I am not deceiving myself in regard to Geoffrey and
Angela and Lizzie--I mean Elizabeth. You won't mention what I have just
confided to you, will you, Mr. Flanders?"
Flanders sighed. He had hoped that the petition would not be put into
definite form.
"Certainly not, sir--if you--er--if you'd rather I wouldn't," he
managed to say with a fair show of alacrity. "But, gee!" The
half-muttered ejaculation spoke volumes of regret.
His host smiled complacently. It was settled, so far as he was
concerned. Mr. Flanders was to be depended upon.
"Still snowing when you came in?" he asked, quite irrelevantly but with
interest.
"Yes, sir--hard."
"Good! We'll have bob-sledding on the terrace for the kiddies
to-morrow. I suppose you'd like to know how we happen to have such a
large and growing family. Well, it's all very simple. It is our
practice to acquire a new baby at least once a year. On occasions we
have felt called upon to make it two, and even three, but of late it
seems the more sensible plan to limit ourselves to one. It is our idea
to keep up the practice until I am seventy-five, if God permits me to
live to that age. So, you see, we will have reared a family of
thirty-three children by that time, and we will never be without little
toddlers and prattlers. I am fifty-three now, Mr. Flanders. We are
reasonably sure to have twenty-two additions to the family. The pitiful
part of getting old and decrepit lies in the fact that one's children
grow up, get married, leave home--or die--and that is just what we are
trying to guard against. On my seventy-fifth birthday, there will be a
fine, healthy two-year-old babe crying and goo-gooing for my especial
benefit, and by working backwards in your figuring you can also credit
us with a three-year-old, a four-year-old, and so on up the line.
Naturally we will have lost a goodly number of the first-comers, but we
provide against a deficit, so to speak, by this little plan of ours.
Some of the girls may not turn out as well as we expect, however, so
there is the possibility that they may remain with us to the end,
enjoying single-blessedness. The boys, of course, will marry."
"It is splendid, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders enthusiastically. "You are
a wonder."
"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Bingle, with a deprecatory
gesture. "I'm a selfish, conniving old rascal, that's what I am. We've
always wanted children, Mrs. Bingle and I, and we never--er--never
seemed to have 'em as other people do, so we began to look for children
that needed parents as much as we needed children. That's the whole
thing in a nut-shell. We are a bit high-handed about it, too. We never
have a child until it is past the teething age and can walk a little
bit and talk a little bit. So, you see, we manage to have 'em without
the drawbacks. That's where we are selfish and--"
"I think you're quite sensible about it, Mr. Bingle," interrupted
Flanders politely. "They say teething is awful."
"That's what they say," said Mr. Bingle, a slight frown of regret on
his brow. "Still, I should have preferred--ahem! Yes, yes! Most
annoying, I'm told. The nurses seem to know. We began adopting our
children as soon as we came into possession of my Uncle Joseph's money.
Up to that time, we had hesitated about having other people's children
on our hands and minds. Of course you'll understand that poverty could
never have stood in the way of our having children of our own. God
simply did not choose to give them to us. The old saying, 'a poor man
for children,' did not work very well in my case. Mrs. Bingle is ten
years younger than I. She is a strong, normal woman. I never could
understand why--er--and neither could she, for that matter. As soon as
we came into this fortune, or, more accurately speaking, after we had
returned from our first trip to California and a short visit to
Chicago, we adopted Kathleen. She was the daughter of a young woman
who--but, never mind. We sha'n't go into that. She was about two years
old. At once it occurred to both of us that it would be a fine idea to
have a boy to grow up with her. So we called in the stork. He happened
to have a splendid, left-over, unclaimed two-year-old boy in stock, so
we took him. That was Frederick. Then, a friend of mine--a widower who
worked as a bookkeeper alongside of me, chap named Jenkins--died very
suddenly, leaving a little girl just under eighteen months of age.
That's how we got Marie Louise. And so it goes, Mr. Flanders, right up
to date. Henrietta and Guinevere are almost twins. Six weeks between
'em. They--"
"You mean in respect to age or--"
"In respect to their arrival. Guinevere came much sooner than was
anticipated, you might say. Little Imogene came the twenty-sixth of
last September. She cries a good deal. I am inclined to think she's
getting her wisdom teeth."
"Naturally, Mrs. Bingle is keen about the idea. Saves a lot of bother."
"It's got to be such a joy having children in this way, when we please,
as often as we like, and being able to determine sex to our own
satisfaction, that we really look forward to the arrival of a new one.
There's always the pleasure of picking out blondes or brunettes. We try
to equalize as much as possible. I am--or was--a blonde, Mr.
Flanders--quite a decided blonde. Mrs. Bingle is still a brunette."
"And now, may I inquire, do they all regard you as their real father?"
"In a measure. There are times when they look upon me as a sort of
truck-horse. But real fathers have told me that that is customary. They
call me daddy, if that's what you mean. Once in a while they seem to
recollect that there was another man and woman in their lives, but not
often. Generally people who used to beat them, I gather. I will say
this for our children: they were all thoroughly spanked before they
came to us. It takes 'em a long time to get used to not being spanked."
"Do you never punish them?"
"Frequently. If they're bad I have them locked in a closet. We've got a
very large closet with windows and other comforts. Usually there are
three or four of 'em in at the same time, so they don't mind."
"God will surely reward you, sir, for being kind to all these poor
little kiddies. May I--ahem!--May I express the hope, sir, that some
day you may me blessed with--er--"
"No use, sir. Thank you, just the same. It will never happen."
"How many nurses have you in your employ?"
"Four at present. We also have a school-teacher--I mean, a governess.
Excellent young woman. Teaches 'em French and German. Curiously enough
some of the children take to foreign languages quicker than the others.
Force says that Reginald is a Hebrew. He was supposed to be Irish."
"Very interesting. All of them strong and healthy?"
"Absolutely. You'd think so if you could see 'em fight occasionally.
They've had the whooping cough and chicken-pox. My doctor is the
renowned Dr. Fiddler. You know of him?"
Mr. Bingle proceeded to dilate upon the activities and achievements of
Dr. Fiddler. There had been broken arms and prodigious bruises, cuts
and gashes of every conceivable character, and in every instance Dr.
Fiddler had performed with heroic fidelity. In the middle of a
particularly enthusiastic tribute to the doctor's skill as a fish-bone
extractor, Diggs appeared in the doorway, coughed indulgently, and then
advanced.
"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous.
They happear to be--"
A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the
sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression
of bedlam.
"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet.
"Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but--but I
really can't delay the--er--Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we
are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run
upstairs and see if--Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is
Miss Fairweather?"
"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down--"
"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs.
She's our new governess, Mr. Flan--"
"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He
leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr.
Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy
portieres.
"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy--I mean to say,
Amy--Fairweather."
"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded
to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and
grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that
dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming. "Dark
brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend--" The sly grin on
the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly subdued his
emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I--I was just
wondering if--"
Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather,
sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to
hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that
you--"
"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs hesitated.
"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"
"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders never
cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down--but, of course,
not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say, will
you--will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second. I'll
write it now. Just slip a note to her--Great Scott! What's that?"
The house seemed to be clattering down about his head.
"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of
the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no stopping
them now. 'Ere they come."
And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking vanguard of the
Christmas revellers--seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had
snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the
play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came,
regardless of stumbles and tumbles--an avalanche of joy.
Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde
with an exploring eye.
"She is coming, sir. Fairly tall and slender, sir, and--"
"Good Lord!" gasped Flanders, helplessly. "This is more than I can
stand. Diggs, do--do men ever faint?"
There was no reply. Three sturdy youngsters collided with Diggs. There
was nothing he could say--with lucidity.